Controlled Remembrance
by Thornapple
Summary: Every year on Halloween, Severus Snape allows himself to replay and remember.
There was nothing, thought Snape sourly, like a commemoration to rub salt into old wounds.

The Pensieve sat in front of him innocuously, its silvery depths casting a glow on his pallid face. His eyes were fixed blankly upon the swirls of memory, with only a slight curl of the lip betraying any hint of feeling behind the mask – acknowledgment, in his opinion, was challenging enough without the added humiliation of indulgence.

And yet, here he was.

It was only once a year that Snape permitted himself this concession, only once a year that he borrowed the Pensieve from Dumbledore in a personal capacity. His explanation each time was that he needed it for research purposes, to sift through details of memories pertaining to his work. The words left a taste like vinegar as they rolled off his tongue, but in spite of everything, he could not bring himself to tell Dumbledore a truth that was already known.

And each time, every year, Dumbledore would survey him mildly, letting the request hang in the air for _just_ a heartbeat too long, before wearily acquiescing. No further questions were asked. No further questions were needed.

.

" _And what will you give me in return, Severus?"_

" _In – in return?"_

 _He stared at Dumbledore dumbly. One moment. Two moments. There was a crushingly silent pause, as leaves and branches whirled through the air. Deep down, he had known that it would come to this, but somehow he had managed to avoid reaching any conclusions; the answer now burst forth with fierce clarity and minimal regret –_

" _Anything."_

 _Anything. . . anything. . . anything. . ._

.

His fingers flexed slightly.

The dreams were not enough. And oftentimes they warped into nightmares which he made no effort to disrupt even when he recognised them for what they were. There was no point. He was not a coward.

And memories were just as precious as before, just as treasured, but they were a finite collection and replaying them in his mind over the years had bleached them, wrung them dry. Furthermore, the lack of detail had become more conspicuous over time and that was something he was unwilling to give up.

There was but one unspoiled avenue left to him. For just _one_ day a year. He would not allow anything more, in case –

His face hardened even as his heart leapt in his chest.

With the abruptness of a person who thought that economy of movement might somehow hide his awkwardness, he leaned into the Pensieve and the world tilted.

.

And he fell headlong into a swirl of colour and sunlight, into a place where the world seemed a little younger and less tainted. Here, no spectre of regret cast its shadow. As he felt his feet touch the ground, his chest tightened.

But then he heard a voice which made that feeling in his chest twist harder, and he looked up with a potent mixture of guilt, and shame, and grief, and. . .

He saw the auburn hair, and green eyes which were not hard with disappointment and resolution as they had been whenever he'd met them in those last few years. He heard her laugh with his younger self as they chatted animatedly about trivial matters without a care in the world.

"I was practicing the Cheering Charm the other day, when I accidentally hit Aubrey without him noticing, and for the first time since I'd known him, he _smiled_ – "

"Somehow I think Bertram Aubrey never smiles for good reason."

"Severus!" Her admonishment was rather ruined by the laugh in her voice.

He straightened up as the world righted itself, and slowly allowed himself to soak in, for just a few stolen minutes, the illusory echoes of his past.

-:-

Later that night, he went up to the Headmaster's office to return the Pensieve. It was a relatively painless affair each year, as Dumbledore generally refrained from commenting. Snape was not fool enough, however, to miss the hint of unfathomable emotion in his eyes (he refused to think of it as pity), but the unspoken rule had held for almost ten years, and he was content with leaving it at that.

This time, as he placed the basin back in its cabinet, Dumbledore spoke. "It was a good feast this year."

So there was to be conversation. Keeping his voice distant and neutral, he responded, "Quite."

"And relatively uneventful. Although, I must say the decorations were superb – Filius and Minerva have outdone themselves this year. I had a most informative and rather morbid discussion with a glowing pumpkin on the health benefits of pumpkin soup earlier today."

"Indeed, Headmaster."

Snape's face was impassive even as he closed the cabinet doors rather more carefully than he would have done. Then he strode quickly towards the door, nodding at Dumbledore in thanks, but just as his hand was on the doorknob, Dumbledore said, "Severus."

His grip on the doorknob tightened, but he remained silent.

He could feel Dumbledore's light blue eyes on his back, and a mixture of anger and dread pushed its way up his chest. There was an _unspoken rule_.

When Dumbledore next spoke, his tone was light and measured. "Harry Potter starts school next year."

Upon hearing this, his anger was immediately tempered with some crushing emotion he could not identify, but in spite of himself he turned to meet Dumbledore's unreadable gaze. "I know," he said coolly. "Don't worry, Headmaster, I haven't forgotten."

Because to forget would be a sin and a mockery of her memory.

And his duties – there were duties which he would have to perform.

There was a long pause, in which Snape looked at Dumbledore with an almost challenging gaze, while the latter's was probing, bordering on pity –

Finally, Dumbledore sighed and said very quietly, "Thank you, Severus. Goodnight, and happy Halloween."

"Goodnight Headmaster." And he was leaving, shutting the door behind him and walking back to his rooms, that volatile cocktail of emotion replaced by a not unwelcome numbness. The blanket of numbness was sometimes preferable to _pain_.

Only when he was safely ensconced in his bedroom did he allow himself to let go of the numb feeling in his chest and he suddenly could not control his face as it _contorted_ , nor the tears which followed. There was only memory left in the end, because the life of Lily Evans had reached its last page a decade ago – there was to be no continuation; he had ensured it.

Memory.

Anything.

 _ **Anything**_.

Tears were falling onto his lap as he pressed his lips together in an effort to control himself.

He had duties to perform.


End file.
